Kimono eBook

She was made to alight at a tall stone building, where
they passed down several echoing corridors, until,
at the end of a little passage a warder pushed open
a door. This was the “sty,” where
prisoners are kept pending examination in the procurator’s
court. The floor and walls were of stone.
It was bitterly cold. There was no window, no
light, no firebox, and no chair. Alone, in the
petrifying darkness, her teeth chattering, her limbs
trembling, poor Asako huddled her misery into a corner
of the dirty cell, to await the further tender mercies
of the Japanese criminal code. She could hear
the scuttering of rats. Had she been ten times
guilty, she felt that she could not have suffered
more!

* * * *
*

Daylight began to show under the crack of the door.
Later on a warder came and beckoned to Asako to follow
him. She had not touched food for twenty hours,
but nothing was offered to her. She was led into
a room with benches like a schoolroom. At the
master’s desk sat a small spotted man with a
cloak like a scholar’s gown, and a black cap
with ribbons like a Highlander’s bonnet.
This was the procurator. At his side, sat his
clerk, similarly but less sprucely garbed.

Asako, utterly weary, was preparing to sit down on
one of the benches. The warder pulled her up
by the nape of her kimono. She had to stand during
her examination.

“What is your name? What is your age?
What are your father’s and mother’s names?”

The monotonous questions were repeated all over again;
and then,—­

“To confess were better. When you confess,
we shall let you go. If you do not confess, we
keep you here for days and days.”

“I am feeling sick,” pleaded Asako; “may
I eat something?”

The warder brought a cup of tea and some salt biscuit.

“Now, confess,” bullied the procurator;
“if you do not confess, you will get no more
to eat.”

Asako told her story of the murder. She then
told it again. Her Japanese words were slipping
from the clutch of her worn brain. She was saying
things she did not mean. How could she defend
herself in a language which was strange to her mind?
How could she make this judge, who seemed so pitiless
and so hostile to her, understand and believe her
broken sentences? She was beating with a paper
sword against an armed enemy.

An interpreter was sent for; and the questions were
all repeated in English. The procurator was annoyed
at Asako’s refusal to speak in Japanese.
He thought that it was obstinacy, or that she was trying
to fool him. He seemed quite convinced that she
was guilty.

“I can’t answer any more questions.
I really can’t. I am sick,” said
Asako, in tears.

“Take her back to the ‘sty,’ while
we have lunch,” ordered the procurator.
“I think this afternoon she will confess.”

Asako was taken away, and thrust into the horrible
cell again. She collapsed on the hard floor in
a state which was partly a fainting-fit, and partly
the sleep of exhaustion. Dreams and images swept
over her brain like low-flying clouds. It seemed
to her distracted fancy that only one person could
save her—­Geoffrey, her husband! He
must be coming soon. She thought that she could
hear his step in the corridor.